The tender leaflets fully picked, we to our homes return,
When each sees her fellow’s dress all soiled with miry slime.
This morn without the door, I beheld a pleasant sky;
Quickly I combed my girlish tufts and firmly set my pin;
With rapid steps away I speed towards the garden’s path,
And forgetful of the muddy way, omit to change my shoes.
When just within the garden bounds, I hear the thunder roll;
My bowing shoes are soaked quite through, yet still I can’t return;
I call my distant comrade to send my message home,
And have my green umbrella-hat set hither to me soon.